


already deep in my bed, baby (why don't you stay over?)

by vinemaple



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Post-Stanley Cup Win, Rare Pairings, Stanley Cup Playoffs, a whole bacchanalia of emotions and dynamics in this paper bag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinemaple/pseuds/vinemaple
Summary: Nolan's always been a fast learner. Knows what Claude likes. Very coachable. It says so right on his scouting reports.
Relationships: Claude Giroux/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	already deep in my bed, baby (why don't you stay over?)

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you see something (the stadium series 2019, colorized) and you get vibes. like when claude cradled nolan's head down into his neck and said "atta boy, yeah?" and you Feel Something: the spirit, hornosity, curiosity, whatever and you say well time to write something weird about it
> 
> title from stay over by Tove lo

Someone gave the team those irritating party favors that you blow into and they unroll and squeal. So Joel and Myers are blowing them at each other and trying to see how close they can get the paper near their faces without it actually touching them. If you flinch you drink. Doesn’t really work in a moving vehicle. 

Claude sinks further into his corner of the limo with a beer warming in his hand and surveys the rest of the Stanley Cup Champion Philadelphia Flyers.

Teeks is passing a half empty bottle of champagne back and forth with Sanny and messing with everyone’s seat heaters. (“It’s not even me, I’m not touching anything. It was--fucking Hagger. I’m being framed, okay.”) Reemer and Coots are lightly debating the queue for the aux and Hayesy keeps trying to interject, except his only input is “We should play some Queen, we should totally play—guys, hey, we should—Queen.” 

The bluetooth is currently bumping some early 2000s pop. While Lady Gaga sings about Robertos, Claude pulls out his phone. He scrolls through the congratulatory texts and emojis (that still flood his inbox a week after winning) until he finds Ryanne.

_ w/ Pat. can i? _

_ hmm yes _

_you deserve it champ_

The speech dots next to Ryanne’s name disappear. 

Nolan is pressed into his arm, sweat from the club dampening his shirt. The fabric of his collar is warped from his constant fidgeting. He has a far off glaze to his eyes, something like drunkenness or disassociation but refocuses when Claude’s hand lands on his knee.

Nolan nods to Claude’s phone in silent inquiry. Claude just rubs the inside of Nolan’s leg, along the kneecap through the tear in his jeans. 

“Ry’s a real one.”

Humming, Claude leans into Nolan’s face, finding his mouth. His stomach tightens when Nolan automatically opens for his tongue. He’s always been a fast learner. Knows what Claude likes. Very coachable. It says so right on his scouting reports.

Someone hoots over the music. 

Joel chirps, “Right in front of my salad?” and is the only one laughing at the joke. Myers clips him on the back of his head. 

Kevin is asking, Stanley Cup Champion hat askew on his head, “So how does this work for you guys? Is it just like a fuck buddies thing?”

“We’re not buddies,” Nolan grumbles, subtly trying to wipe his sweaty forehead on Claude’s shoulder.

”Ah, so just a couple of fucks then.” Kevin grins, pleased at his innuendo. Nolan rolls his eyes. 

Claude would be lying if he said it was a chore. He loved taking Nolan apart like some organic machine, disassembling him like a motor. Tendons shaking as the orgasm ran him ragged, until his bones were jelly and his brain got quiet. Claude feels so successful at the moment when Nolan finally goes limp and he knows he’s done his job.

Claude considers it part of being a captain.

It’s a way for Claude to make sure Nolan’s head’s on right, but also let him know who’s in charge, that there are things bigger than himself. Nolan can get a little pissy sometimes with himself and on the bench. He’s smart and he thinks the game well but he’s still young. For Nolan it’s security from someone he trusts. And his captain gives him ultimatums that simplify things on bad days. _ Carry into the zone by yourself or drop pass to me. Beg or you’re not getting it. Listen to what I’m saying. Hey, it’s your face-off. Say _ please _ or I’m not giving you another finger. _

And most of the time he doesn’t need to tell Nolan. Nolan’s already keeping pace with him--never offsides, feathering through the offensive zone, backchecking like a mother, gritting through his teeth to whine _ please please please _ when Claude has him bowed into the bed. But sometimes Nolan likes the reminders. Almost like a confirmation of all the things he’s doing well. Claude loves that he can give Nolan that approval, knows he needs it to stave off the anxiety after a bad game.

When he’s worrying about the draft or getting caught out of position Claude tells him, _ I’d pick you every time. _

_ Sure, you would. _

So Claude grips him by the scruff of the neck a little harder to dredge him from whatever pool of doubt he’s sinking into. _ I’d still want you. And there’s not a guy in the room that wouldn’t do the same._

Nolan is like a receptacle for Claude to place things in: his hopes for the team, his love of the game, a mouth for his cock, a fountain of youth--the surface of the water reflecting Claude’s own career back to him. Claude remembers being that age, thinking you’re untouchable and then someone checks you so hard it makes your teeth hurt. It’s a hard league to play in and he wants to help the kids as much as possible, in whatever capacity.

“I was never as put together as you,” Claude told Nolan a few months ago. 

The center shrugged. “Travis keeps me together.” 

Claude looked at him fondly, mouth crooked to withhold the chirps. “Yeah, how’s that going?” 

Nolan blushed, nodded and in a strangled sort of voice said, “Yeah.” 

Claude just laughed and laughed and laughed. 

They’re laying in bed and the sheets are quickly cooling. Wet where Claude’s lower back doesn’t rest completely flat and the AC chills the sweat. Nolan shivers beside him and Claude can feel the goosebumps prickling his arms. 

Like so many times over the past week Claude blinks and replays the last minutes of Game 6 OT when the Flyers had the series lead 3-2. Sees himself skate up the half wall in position for Nolan’s pass to bank off the boards. But instead of banking the pass to Claude, Nolan dekes Parakyo out of his jock and snakes to the bottom of the circles. Fast and reckless like a fish through shallow water. Before a single thought can manifest, Claude watches as Binnington flashes an elbow out, the barest mockery of a chicken wig, but the shot sails under his arm and the net flutters behind him. 

Claude understood then when people said _ butterfly effect _they meant this: the eerie sequence of events when your life changes irrevocably like the turn of a coin landing in your palm. 

Heads or tails. Winning the Stanley Cup or not winning the Stanley Cup. 

The net rippling, Claude’s abdomen clenching with his stride, still skating backwards, still hunched for the next sequence up ice. Unable to stop because it couldn’t be over. 

But there Nolan was, turning back to him even before the play was finished, before the goal horn had signaled the end of everything, soggy hair sticking to his face as Claude watched his expression shift from determination into disbelief.

Claude had been the first to reach him. Gloves and stick abandoned to the air. Wet hot hands, wet jersey, the crowd screaming, the blood in his ears compounding with his own yell muffled into the side of Nolan’s neck. So so happy, so so so so--and then everyone reached them. Crashed into them like a tidal wave, the momentum and the skates pushing them backwards, slamming into the crossbar of the Blues’ goal, pushing up against it until it dislodged. 

The memory is so fresh that Claude can feel the salt stinging his face like pieces of fiberglass. Can remember wiping rivers of sweat from his forehead and the tears from his eyes. Burning with emotion and saline as the physical anguish of a championship rolled through him like shin splints. 

Claude thinks maybe they could do it again. Win again. He feels a stirring between his thighs, already aching for the next release. They could do it again. They had time. He was getting older, but he hadn’t lost his skating legs yet. Besides, everyone was so fucking young anyway. They were inheriting the places on the ice where Claude used to be. The power play, the first line, the penalty kill. But it didn’t make him sad. It meant they were _ good. _ Finally.

He wasn’t so alone out there anymore. 

Claude rubs his knuckles on Nolan’s hip. 

Deep and from the well of his chest Nolan asks, “Want to go again?”

Nolan's young in hockey years but not as young as when Claude first met him. The butterfly effect of shaking hands with him at that mentor camp years ago when Nolan was just a kid and then watching the draft in 2017, recollection nagging at the back of his mind. That face. Something. Something familiar about it as Claude fought to remember him through a beer haze in Jake’s living room. The kid _ \--Nolan Patrick. _ From Ron Hextall’s mouth to Claude’s ears. And he was all theirs. 

Nolan’s grown into himself since then. The strong jaw, the judgmental eyes, huge fucking hands. And of course a Cup now. 

Claude can still hear Nolan shouting _ yeah baby oh my god we did it we FUCKING DID-- _ breaking into a laugh. This childish scream like the ones Gavin makes when he’s overwhelmed. Claude felt it burst out of Nolan as the rest of the bench swarmed them. 

And Claude will feel all of it (the screaming in his ear, the crowd roaring, the thrill of catching and killing something he’d been hunting for ten seasons) for the rest of his goddamn beautiful little life. 

“Kay,” he said. “One more.” 

And the Cup had been cold against his lips when he finally kissed it but Nolan is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> me before writing this: haha...unless ?


End file.
